You seem so tired. squeaking, like a mouse, a floorboard, or a surprise. Your regretful head bowed and fragrant with fear, invisible. the silver nimbus of scissors rummaged from the chipped kitchen cupboard, held up with thin fingers. "It's time for a change", you say, sonorous and famed illusions falling in fire-engine braids, clipped free from decadence. Beyond the bug-proof mesh, a throaty hail of dawn draws you out, damp-eyed and frail to the yard's simple square. pink toes lap the loomed grass and dew, one arm cross your brow, blinking a challenge to the blue sunlight, wrapped in gauze like brilliance. And when next you lean against the fridge, you'll pause in wonder at the records of someone young, and drunk. you sneered like a punk, lived fast, eyes smudged, in ripped fishnets and nose ring. Never meant to last, and that's the whole thing.